


Dust to Dust, My Friend (I'm Only Blood and Bone)

by DeductionIsKey



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: A New Idea - But It's Cool I Promise!, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/M, Gen, Peter Parker is Tony Stark, Time Travel, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark is Good With Kids
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-29 23:53:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19030516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeductionIsKey/pseuds/DeductionIsKey
Summary: The soul stone makes its choice, and with an orange tendriled wisp, it creeps slowly into the ashes of those two heroes.It remakes them, their hearts and souls, makes them not quite Tony, but not quite Peter, and then, it sends them back. And back and back.





	1. You Start With Something Pure

**Author's Note:**

> Starting another story in the midst of my thousands of WIPs? You know it! I actually have an outline for this one too, so really it's just a matter of writing it. ^.^ Enjoy!

When Tony was four years old, he built his first circuit board.

In interviews, when Anthony Edward Stark was roped into doing them anyway, first by Obadiah Stane and then by Virginia Potts, Tony would laugh convincingly when they eventually brought that highly-publicized fact. “I guess I just always loved working with my hands.” he’d smile, and they would continue that dance of public interrogation hidden behind politeness. 

No one mentioned that, even at that age, surely Tony would have wanted to do something beyond build things. They wouldn’t understand, is the reasoning. They’re not geniuses, Tony Stark operated on a different wavelength than everyone else. Creation at that young age is unheard of for ‘normal’ people, but not for the Starks. Men with steel in their blood and circuits in their souls, the saying went. Men of iron. 

But the truth was, and is, that Tony wasn’t born with a desperate ability to create. He had learned, had watched and waited, still and quiet. He was a quick learner, his teachers always said that when Tony’s mother could come for the pre-school meetings. Gifted in a way they couldn’t understand. Smart, too smart for a normal life and normal friends. 

But not smart enough for Howard Stark. Where Tony’s mother freely loved and praised him, his father stood on that pillar of unattainable perfection, something four-year-old Tony didn’t fully understand. He understood one thing though, deeply and intimately. Simply, in a way only lonely children could understand: his father loved his machines more than him. He had seen the triumphant and proud gleam in his father’s eye when he fiddled with those strange contraptions in his lab, had heard his quick shouts of excitement. He wanted his father to look at him like that, like he was a prize won through hard work and dedication, like he was  _ worth something.  _

So he built the circuit board - a basic PCB, large and bulky, but functional. Built out of scraps found in his father’s lab, the insulation factors were shaky at best and dangerous at worst. The copper foil was folded together into a single sheet with ridges where a piece had ended and began again. It was simple, and crude, containing only small, crooked chemical etchings that separated into little circuit traces that formed what almost could be a picture of a cat’s whiskers. The whole thing wobbled terribly when Tony had run to Edwin Jarvis with it, his face bright with hope and excitement at what he had made. “Do you think dad will like it?” He asked, his voice solemn, quiet and carrying the heavy, lisped accent only four-year-olds can have. 

Jarvis had hesitated, once, twice, and then nodded slowly. “I believe he shall love it, sir.” and he dutifully scooped up a giggling Tony in his arms, carefully not to drop the circuit board. “Shall we deliver it now?” and Tony had giggled again and nodded passionately. 

They had walked like that to his father’s lab, a single, warped shadow of a hopeful boy and his hesitant butler. Jarvis always had had this royal, determined air around him, and it bled into Tony as he squirmed in his arms. His father would love him now, now that he could see what Tony could do. He would love him and not scowl anymore, and everything would be happy again. 

But despite these assurances, when they had finally reached that ominous door marked with a silver plaque, he faltered and shrunk back into Jarvis even more. 

“Is something the matter, sir?” Jarvis had asked, gentle as always. He had knelt down and set Tony gently on the floor next to him, and then lifted Tony’s chin up with a soft touch of a finger. “You needn’t do this if you do not wish to.” 

Tony shook his head. “No. No, I - I want to.” He squared his shoulders, and with Jarvis’ hand in his, had walked into that ginormous lab. 

His father was there, as always, bent over a particularly large, sleek missile. The missile itself was as ostentatious as possible, shiny and covered a bold black, that matched crisply with the brilliant white logo of ‘Stark Industries’ on it. His father, however, was less clean, his hair greasy and his clothes rumpled. He was muttered quietly to himself, an irritated murmur. Jarvis paused. 

“Perhaps we could come later, master Tony,” He said and glanced toward the clock hanging on the opposite side of the lab. “It’s nearly lunchtime, maybe you could tell him about your creation over a nice turkey sandwich?” 

“No,” Tony responded, insistent and filled with courage he hadn’t had moments before. “I want to tell him now.” He took his hand from Jarvis and walked forward to his father with his back straight and his head held high. 

“Master Tony-” Tony ignored him. He can do this. He takes another step, and then another. 

He reached his father far sooner then his bravado would care for, with his heart being thrilled despite himself regarding his march to victory. But now, the moment has arrived, and quickly and urgently, Tony tugged on his father’s arm. 

“Dad-” He started to say but fumbled when his father jerked and looked down at him with irritated surprise. His courage started to wan, but he soldiered on. “Dad, I - I made something for you.” and proudly, he displays his crude creation to his own creator. The copper sheet gleamed in the light of the cheap fluorescents and the ticking of the small clock was the only noise to be heard.

His father did not gasp with joy. His father did not drop his screwdriver and hold Tony as tightly as his mother does when he scrapes his knee. His father did not smile, or even look anything more than tired. He just stared, at the circuit board, and then at Tony, whose proud smile had dimmed significantly in the bare seconds that had passed. A second passed, and then another. “Go play, Tony,” Howard said wearily, and then he turned back to the missile without a second word. 

Tony’s eyes were wide, and his breaths came out in short, stagnated bursts as he just… stood there. He held the board tightly to his chest and then, shoving past a devastated Jarvis, he burst through the door, his eyes filled with bitter, bright tears. He had failed. 

Shouts could be heard coming from the lab as Tony tore apart his delicate creation, hitting it again and again and again with his salvaged tools from his father’s equipment. His body heaved and his tears dripped poetically onto his destroyed hope. The green shards decorated the floor of his room as he swung his tiny hammer at it, the copper sheet broke apart in crumpled flakes. The little pathways broke down the middle, the tiny silver dots smushed themselves into the shards, and then the journey began again. Tony sobbed. 

“Tony-  _ Tony,”  _ His mother cried as she rushed to his room amidst the destruction. She grabbed his arms and gently took the hammer away, casting it toward his bed with a barely-there look. “Calm down,  _ cucciolo,”  _ and she guided him toward her gently. “What’s wrong, my love?” 

Tony, with his eyes still full of tears and his whole body shaking, thrust himself toward his mother and gripped her as tight as he could. Maybe, just maybe, if he closed his eyes and wished hard enough, he could pretend that it was his father he was hugging.

It never quite worked. 

-

When Peter was four years old, both of his parents died. 

At first, it wasn’t much of a change from the norm - he had already been staying with May and Ben for about a week before the news hit anyway, and the only thing that had visibly changed was the circles under his uncle’s eyes and the tears in May’s. But not much changed, and when they finally sat him down and told him that “Your parents aren’t coming back, Pete,” he hadn’t understood. When they had gone to the local cemetery to pick out a plot, he hadn’t understood. When they had chosen the material for the gravestone, he hadn’t understood. 

But when the time had come for him to get tangled into the black suit that smelled like the new car Ben had gotten a while ago, a crisp smell that made his nose wrinkle up at the intensity of it, Peter thought he finally understood. 

His parents had left him. 

They didn’t want him anymore, and they weren’t coming back. 

When the wake came and went - a closed casket memorial, as their remains were unrecognizable and frankly, painful to see - and Peter slowly accepted that he would never see his mother and father again. He would wake up crying, without a reason why, and wish it was all a dream, that they would just be playing a game of hide-and-seek. That was never true. 

Nightmares plagued Peter to the point where he could barely sleep, and the home-remedy of warm milk and honey became the enemy of his increasing insomnia. Peter didn’t think he was sad - he could barely understand the concept of death. All he knew was that his parents had abandoned him here - alone. Forever. 

The date of the burial came slower and yet faster then Ben expected, and soon he and May were both holding Peter’s hands as they watched the priest pronounce the liturgy for the dead. With his arm shaking, Peter had pointed toward the dark blue caskets that were being lowered into the ground. “Is that-” He paused and turned toward May and Ben, whose eyes were red, wide and sad as they gazed softly at Peter. He tried again, loudly this time. “Is - is..” May nodded, and his face crumpled. Not even the thick patterns of May’s skirt could quite hide the stuttering cries from that boy of four. 

-

Peter knew, more than most, what grief did to people. It made them weak at the knees and blind in the mind, it reddened their visions and crumpled their souls. It could rot their insides and leaves them shadows of what they used to be. “Don’t trust a man who’s got nothing to lose, Pete,” Ben had said out of the blue one night. Peter hadn’t understood then, but looking into Peter Quill’s face as he wrenched away from their grasp the  _ one  _ chance they had of fixing this, of  _ winning, _ he understood. 

It was too late now though. Thanos was long gone, with the time-stone in his hand and one step closer to winning. They had no way off this planet other than a downed ship and everyone knew it. They were doomed, even if the rest of the universe wasn’t. 

But Peter wasn’t taught to lose hope. Hope was something that you have to give yourself, at least when things get hard, and so Peter got up from the ground and walked toward Tony. They weren’t dead,  _ Tony _ wasn’t dead. They could get through this. They had too. 

“Mr Stark-” He ventured, coming closer to his mentor. “Are you alright?”   


Mr Stark looked toward Peter with a face so tired that even Peter felt his small hope flicker inside him. He looked like the battle was lost already, that people had already died. Maybe they had, it’s not like they would know. They could be knee-deep in blood right now.  _Half the universe..._

“Hey, Pete,” Mr Stark said, and it’s soft even while the roaring of their failure loomed over them. “How ‘ya doing?” Peter helped him up. 

“I’m good.” He responded, and then looked at the cauterized wound in Tony’s side. “Is that-” Tony waved him off. 

“I’m good too, kid, don’t worry.” Peter nodded, not even knowing if it mattered anymore. If anything really mattered anymore. 

The dim light of Titan seemed to surround everything that Peter looked upon, and even as he steadied Tony’s steps, he stumbled across the rocks toward the other members of their failure. The air smelled like ash, and his whole body seemed to shake. Adrenaline, the aftermath. 

“Something’s happening,” It was whispered. Tony reached out. 

And then, right before Peter’s eyes, the woman just… dissolved. Into flakes of ash and dust that disappeared even before they had sprung into the air. Almost in the background of Peter’s mind, an alarm started to sound. His body shook all the more. His head ached. 

“Quill?” Another man to the slaughterhouse. Peter struggled to stay on his feet. 

“Steady, Quill,” Tony said, and then he too disappeared. A whisper that Peter barely managed to hear. He gasped for air. His vision spun. 

“Tony,” Doctor Strange said, and his voice doesn’t contain an ounce of regret or surprise like he knew this was always coming. “There was no other way,” and then he too disappeared. 

“Mister Stark?” Peter gasped out, and Tony spun to meet him. “I don’t feel so good.” He stumbled toward Tony. “I don’t… I don’t know what's happening-” 

“You’re alright.” It’s desperate. 

“I don’t- I don’t,” he fell upon Tony in a heap, his burning arms grasping for anything definitive to hold onto. “I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go, sir,  _ please,”  _ and then Tony felt it too. 

A burning that crawls into his stomach and spread into his whole body. He loses feeling in his legs, and he and Peter fall, together. Peter’s cries waver as Tony, too, turns a dusty shade. 

“Mister Stark? Not you too,  _ Tony,”  _ His voice is selfless and caring, filled with pain as he burned. 

“ _ Shhh, _ ” Tony gasped out. “It’s okay, Pete,” Peter is already dusting away, his eyes full of tears. “I’m coming too, hold on, _it’s okay_ -” 

Nebula can’t quite hold in her cry as a boy and his mentor blew away, together. 

-

_ The stone demands a sacrifice.  _

_ But it also demands order.  _

(Not the order of men, with their twisted rites and rotten souls. Not the order of the Titan. It was made in the bursting of light and  _ all _ that was, it had seen such degradation. No, not the order of the Titan.)

A true order, one reestablished again and again. Do you think men haven’t tried before, in the aeons back and back and back? The stone allows it’s work to be done, but it is not just a tool. It is  _ alive,  _ and it will stop this misuse. 

There are two needed. A boy and his son. Blood matters not, bodies with their finicky neurons and cells and organs matter not. The stone is the soul, and that is what truly matters. There have never been two souls closer to each other than those of  Anthony Stark and Peter Parker. 

These are two needed. But one, the older, more jagged of the two, is integrally important in his time as well. To change… perhaps… 

The soul stone makes its choice, and with an orange tendriled wisp, it creeps slowly into the ashes of those two heroes. 

It makes them, not quite Tony, but not quite Peter, and then, it sends them back. And back and back. 

_ Where did that bring you? Back to me.  _


	2. Make Me Anew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The future was years away now. (Thanos was years away now.)  
> He could change it. He had to.

When souls combine, certain things are lost. 

Like souls clash and draw together, whipping around each other in a beautiful internal light show that hisses and sings. Tony Stark, the avoidant doer. Peter Parker, the expressive avoider. These traits mix together into something not quite a colloid, but definitely a solution.

But this evolution does not take away what makes Spider-Man and Iron Man each a hero. It does not take away the memories of Peter singlehandedly lifting up a building, alone and scared. It does not take away the memories of Tony Stark holding a good,  _ good _ man named Yinsen in his arms as the dust and furious shouts swirled around them. It takes away everything, yet nothing at all. 

All these things are known to the soul stone, and its mission is complete. It holds the souls - one soul, compete and singular - for one last time, and then releases it to the place it needs to go. 

Back to where it all began. Back to the beginning of the end. 

_ I had strings… but now I’m free.  _

-

The first thing that Peter (Tony?) registered when that fog of memories comes into a shade of awareness, was how  _ hot _ he is. 

Wherever he is, it’s blisteringly, scathing hot, the thing of heat that seeps into your eyes and makes it impossible to process more than each second as it passes. It blinds him and so he struggles to escape from it, turning this way and that.  _ Open your eyes,  _ something whispers, and so he does. 

At first, in his delirious state, he thinks that he’s in jail. Metal bars are the first thing to greet him and he lifts his aching arms to greet them. They’re cold to the touch and he sighs in relief at even this small comfort. Wanting more, he tries to wrap his whole hand around the bar but meets the firm touch of a boxspring. “What?” He whispered and pokes it. 

A soft knock caused him to jerk back in alarm and wince as he looks through the darkness of his surroundings toward what might be a door, whose cracks are seeped in outside light. “Hey, Peter, time for school, hun,” A voice said through the door, and Peter shook his head, struggling to get the fog out of it. “You up?” The voice asked again. 

The door opened slightly, and the light flicked on. Peter flinched at the sudden brightness and blinks, once, twice. “Hey,” he says, and it comes out as a croak. 

“Pete?” and then the door opened fully, revealing the figure of a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a clean-cut outfit. “Are you okay?” She asked and walked toward Peter. 

She crouched down to the bottom bunk of what Peter just realized was a bunk-bed, and smiled softly at Peter who blinked blearily at her. His body seems to vibrate with heat. She put her hand on Peter’s forehead, who can’t help but flinch back slightly when her cold hand makes contact. 

“Hun, you’re burning up,” She whispered and looked over at his alarm clock. “You want to stay home today?”

Without the slightest clue of what exactly he was staying home from, Peter nodded. “Thanks, Pep,” he muttered and pulled the covers back onto himself. 

A breath, and then darkness. 

Sleep. 

-

Hours later, when Peter wakes up, he’s less hot and more confused. 

He now recognized his bed, his room, and his Aunt. But his mind seemed in shambles, with the associative feelings behind these concepts jumbled and bashed. His aunt came with the thoughts of caution and vague liking, and then an influx of true love and appreciation. His room, acute disgust at the lack of fashionable decor, and then fondness. His uncle Ben? Nothing, and then,  _ grief.  _

He was Tony Stark, but he also was truly Peter Parker.

It was… confusing. 

When Peter finally convinced himself to get off that old mattress, he groaned as his head struggled to right itself. It wasn’t like he had any experience with person-joining (which,  _ what? _ ) but he had a feeling that he shouldn’t be feeling this terrible. The only time he’d ever felt this bad was… 

The morning after the bite. 

Quickly, Peter grabbed his cracked phone and checked the date.  _ Wednesday _ ,  _ January 14th, 2015,  _ it read and with an exhausted sigh, he leaned his head against the dresser and just sat there for a minute, and then two. Three… 

If there was one thing Peter Parker (and Tony Stark) couldn’t manage to do, it was to just stop thinking. Even while he sat there, his head spun with the applications and questions that came with such a date. How did they get here? Where was he right now? In the future, was Aunt May, was Pepper d-

He stopped.  _ Breathe _ , he commanded himself, and steadily his worry decreased to the calm roar it always was. The future was years away now. (Thanos was years away now.) 

He could change it. 

He  _ had _ to.

-

An hour passed in relative silence, as Peter just reviled in the fact that - for once - there was nothing to do. Of course, the world was waiting and not watching nearly enough, but that could be fixed tomorrow. His head still hurt, his lips were as dry as Titan had been. Just one day of rest, for now… 

Still, the inaction made his day of ‘rest’ incredibly boring. Peter of years ago had completed their homework the night before -  _ homework _ , the Tony part of him thought in disgust - and now, there was relatively nothing of import for him to do at all. Normally, on a day like this, you could find Tony in his lab, jazz or rock or some other absurd of genre playing over FRIDAY’s speakers. Peter would be doing the same, just on a smaller scale. A couple of old computers and twenty dollar headphones from Walmart would be his choices of the day, and a small smile so alike to Tony’s could have been viewed on him as he hummed and worked. Peace, to some extent. And then Pepper would come home and she’d smile and he’d grin and-

The memories made his mouth turn to acidic ash, and he curled even more into himself. It wasn’t like Peter to just wallow in his grief, but Tony was quite content in doing exactly that. Soon though, he got up and examined his surroundings. All this doing nothing was driving him  _ crazy.  _

His lips curled as he saw the outdated tech around, his Stark attitude coming out temporarily, but that too went away quickly, overcome by sheer exasperation seconds later. It worked, and it’s not like Ben and May can afford to buy more. It’s not like Peter can make it better than he already had… 

But he  _ can _ . 

-

Benjamin Parker was a salesman, a veteran, and surprisingly, a singer. But more importantly, he was also a husband and - he liked to think anyway - a father. 

When his brother had first died, he had cradled Peter’s hand and wondering, dimly, how anyone could ever know how to parent a child. He had searched up manual after manual, even while knowing that it wouldn’t work. Offers had come forward, of course, they had. A well-behaved, cute and intelligent boy such as Peter, recently orphaned? He was prime picking for potential foster parents. _ If you don’t feel up to it… If you feel like he’s not the right fit for you…  _

But feelings had nothing to do with it. Sometimes doing the right thing meant that whatever you felt like you truly wanted took a backseat, and besides, as he had quite loudly expressed to all those who emailed or called or knocked, Peter was a Parker and a Parker he would stay. He and May hadn’t even talked about rejecting Peter for some other stranger’s home, where they couldn’t guarantee his safety nor his happiness. Peter was theirs now, end of story.

So Ben Parker was a salesman, a husband, and definitely a father. 

As Peter grew older, he changed so rapidly that it spun Ben for a loop. One day, he wanted to be an astronaut and had speckled little dots all over his walls to resemble the different constellations. Next, mathematics was the prime of the hour, and Peter would go and go about this and that equation or formula until Ben admitted to Peter that he was ten minutes late to work and utterly confused. Literature, physics, computers. They changed and shaped his nephew, but something never changed, even though the ages did. 

Who Peter was as a person, a good, _ good _ person, who cared deeply for others and told you outright, never truly changed, only evolved. He was emphatic and introverted, kind to the highest degree. His nephew was the best man Ben had ever met, and Ben couldn’t be prouder. 

He was smart too, blindingly in a way that never ceased to amaze him. The things he could do with only his hands and his mind… Ben couldn’t imagine. He tried to listen when Peter was rambling about his newest creations, but when they were bare seconds in and Ben had completely lost him, Peter would just look at him sheepishly and shrug. He was never bitter for his misunderstanding. Where most would be at least irritated, Peter was understanding, and while understanding, never harsh or unkind about another person’s inabilities. It’s not my place, Peter would say, and then blush like he’d said something untoward. 

Given the right tools, Ben could easily see his nephew changing both technology and the world, for the better. 

He was a Parker after all. 

-

When Ben gets home, the first thing he noticed is the almost harsh music coming from the kitchen. 

“May?” He called, and then heard a  _ clang  _ followed by muttering. 

“Just me, Uncle Ben!” The cause of all the commotion said, causing Ben to chuckle and walk closer to the kitchen. Peter baking? A proven disaster surely… 

But then he stopped. 

Because Peter wasn’t baking. He was… _ creating.  _

Around his nephew sat an assortment of wires, spread across the counters and the faux-marble island. Not a surface was seen without some sort of tech, and the whole room smelled of oil and metal. In the middle of the island sat a dissembled microwave, along with a retro computer screen that seemed to beep wearily up at him. Music still played in the background, an endless stream of meaningless staccatos in Ben’s brain as he struggled to take it all in. Screwdrivers, a drill… 

In the midst of all this chaos was a humming Peter, whose head was curled over an unseen creation. His clothes were filthy with the black grease that covers from working with various parts, and his hands were coated in the same oil. His hair was a bedhead of messy strands, but strangely almost styled, like he had showered and fashioned his attire and look for the sheer purpose of messing it up. Peter looked up. 

“Hey, Ben!” His voice seemed to carry a sort of weight to it that Ben wasn’t used to hearing in a boy as young as fourteen, and almost unconsciously, he straightened when Peter looked at him. It was thick with emotion that Ben couldn’t begin to understand, and yet carried a hint of authority not present just last night. What had happened to his nephew? 

“Sorry to make such a mess,” Peter continued, and Ben looked deeper at him like he was a puzzle. “I was sick this morning, so May said to stay home, but I got really,  _ really _ bored and then-” 

“You decided to trash the kitchen?” The incredulity in his voice was obvious, and Peter flushed. 

“I didn’t trash it!” He protested and bent down to grab his before-obscured creation. “I made you guys a PC!” 

“PC?” His question was spoken slowly, tiredly. 

“A personal computer,” Peter said back, and then planted it onto the island. It was a bulky thing, grey and tan, with spare bits sticking out every which way. It hummed precariously. 

“There were a couple of parts I had to salvage from the other computers I had in storage just to get a decent amount of CPU, but it’s usable!” He smiled proudly. “You like it?” The question was, once again, weirdly weighted, like Peter’s existence held in the balance of a decent answer. Ben gave him one. 

“It’s brilliant, Pete. You never cease to amaze me.” It was soft and well-meant, a fond sort of thing. Something Ben said often - when Peter brought home all A’s, when he’d made his first honours roll, and every other time Ben felt so inclined to say it. 

But judging by Peter’s reaction, you’d never know that was the case. His eyes were wide and shocked, and his mouth was ever so slightly open in delayed surprise. He practically shone with pride. A moment passed, and then just when Peter seemed like he would say what seemed to be on his mind - May came home. 

The doorbell rang, and the moment was broken. Peter jerked back like he had been struck, and then laughed nervously. “Great! Great…” He clapped his hands together and then gathered the PC in both his hands. 

“Don’t worry about the mess, I’ll clean it up once I put this into your office, Ben,” He said, and his voice was back to being strangely self-assured. “I’ll have it clean before dinner, J!” A promise. To whom? 

Ben only nodded once, confused, and then went to greet his wife, the events of the last ten minutes shoved from the forefront of his brain. 

_ I shouldn’t be alive… unless it was for a reason.  _

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this one, maybe you'd want to consider checking out my other fic: "Brokenness is a Work of Art"? It's got a lot of the same tropes in it! It's an Endgame Fix-It though, not an Infinity War one, so spoiler alert for that!
> 
> Comments make my day! Honestly, they're one of the reasons I love writing on here so much! Pretty please?


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